by Anna Windsor
“Mr. Blackmore, you haven’t lost your best operative,” Mother Keara said, smiling that monkey smile of hers. “You still have John Cole and all that he knows. For a time, at least, he’s alive and well in Duncan Sharp’s mind.”
Blackjack’s only question was “How long?”
Duncan couldn’t process the words, but he saw all the Sibyls shift their attention to Mother Keara. Their expressions changed. He saw emotions. Lots of them.
He wanted to yell at them to stop, to back off, but he didn’t yell at women.
How long?
That’s what Blackjack wanted to know, but why? What was he talking about?
“How long they remain on this earth is hard to say.” Mother Keara’s smile faded. “The universe will be fightin’ to set things right soon enough, so they won’t be continuin’ the partnership forever. Weeks. Perhaps a few months before nature takes her own course. The infection will worsen, and as Duncan Sharp begins to die, John Cole’s spirit will depart, along with all the protection it’s offerin’.”
Her words drifted through Duncan’s awareness.
He was starting to get it now.
John had saved him from the Rakshasa, and John’s spirit and his magic coin were slowing the infection in his slash wounds. But it couldn’t go on forever. Somewhere in the universe, a countdown timer had clicked on, and the numbers were spinning down fast. Sooner or later—sooner, probably—this little ball would end, only Duncan wouldn’t be turning into a pumpkin when the clock struck midnight.
He’d be turning into a demon.
The fingers on his good hand pulled into a fist. Deep in his brain, Duncan saw images of the Rakshasa, images that had to be from John’s memories. With each picture that flashed through his awareness, Duncan understood a little more. Like how long John had been fighting the nasty cats. So that’s why he’d been dreaming of the old war—and of new ones he couldn’t quite understand.
Next, John showed him the intent of the Rakshasa, as John understood it. The Rakshasa wanted to regain their former glory, to gather power and wealth. It was their only purpose. Their obsession. They would consolidate allies.
They would avenge themselves on any and all who dared to stand in their way.
Like the Sibyls, John said. Especially these four, who took them on in DUMBO and battled them to a draw. The demons will track these women without mercy and tear them to pieces.
“No way in hell,” Duncan muttered, and even his bad hand curled.
“Only a few months?” Bela’s beautiful voice sounded strained as she spoke to Mother Keara. “Couldn’t it be longer?”
Mother Keara’s shoulders slumped. “We’re doin’ what we can to contain that infection, but the demon energy fights back. It’ll break through the wards and barriers we’ve set in his body, and in the end it’ll take him. Duncan Sharp will become Rakshasa.”
Duncan heard the words, but once more they didn’t sink all the way through his numbed understanding.
Blackjack and the Brent brothers stood still, staying silent, conveying frustration and rage in their stony expressions. Bela opened her mouth, but no words came out. Her gaze darted to Duncan, then she closed her eyes and turned away from him, staring out the yellow room’s open door.
“We know a lot of stand-up guys who are demons or half demons.” Andy dripped water faster and faster, like a broken fountain. “Duncan’s one of us. One of the good guys. Why couldn’t he learn to control himself after the change?”
Mother Keara’s long gray hair rustled against her green robes as she shook her head. “You’ve been readin’ the same scrolls I have, child. Rakshasa are inherently evil, perhaps some of the worst entities known throughout history. When he changes, there won’t be any of Duncan Sharp’s essence left to guide his actions. Created Rakshasa always go mad.”
Duncan wanted to close his eyes like Bela and find some way to stare into the center of his own brain until he found John Cole’s spirit.
“Is she telling the truth?” he asked John out loud, not caring how insane he sounded.
Yes. Then, more quietly, I’m sorry.
Duncan smashed his good hand against the railing of his bed. The metal snapped sideways. An IV pole went flying, and a needle tore out of his forearm, tape and all. Blood welled and trickled down his fingers, but he waved off Blackjack and Andy.
“Leave it.” His mind was fixed on the Rakshasa and how fast he’d have to work to take them down before he died. To Mother Keara he said, “You people have been doing something to help me heal faster, haven’t you?”
She met his stare with her bright eyes, fire dancing in the green depths. “Yes.”
Duncan nodded, feeling the pull and pain of the bandages against the demon cuts on his neck and shoulder. “Do it more. Do it faster. Seal up these wounds as much as they can be sealed, and get me out of this cast. I want to get back on the streets at full strength.”
Her stare continued. She looked impressed, but she said, “You’re fully human. The pain would be unbearable.”
Duncan felt John’s resolve join with his own. “I don’t give a shit. I—we—don’t have time to waste.”
Blackjack didn’t argue, but Duncan knew he wouldn’t. Jack Blackmore was practical, and above all, he was a man determined to take down his enemies. If the Rakshasa were his targets now, then God help them. Saul and Calvin stayed quiet, too, but Duncan figured he’d be hearing their opinions later, if he survived this speeded-healing shit.
As for his angel and her group of Sibyls, they said nothing, and their expressions remained fixed. Duncan felt a flicker of respect from Dio, the blonde with the wicked stare that even an enemy combatant would fear. The little redhead, Camille, nodded to him, and Andy, arms folded, set her mouth in a straight line.
“Do it.” Andy’s tone communicated as much as the unhappy determination in his angel’s eyes. These women were definitely warriors, just as focused on their purpose as Blackjack and Duncan and John Cole.
Duncan forced his gaze away from Bela.
“Take me to the townhouse,” Mother Keara was telling Camille and Dio. “The building north and east of here, where your OCU has its headquarters. We’ll be needin’ a bigger space like their stone basement to pull this off—and a lot more Mothers. Better I do the organizin’ and plannin’—and the transports, too. Yana will get cranky if she’s dragged back here by any child less than a century old.”
To Bela, she said, “He’s safe enough for now with what we’ve put in place, for a few weeks I think, but keep a Sibyl with him and don’t let him be too active past general movin’ about. Get as much as you can from all those medical machines—his blood, his genes, his energy, and that infection. Every bit of information you can find.”
Bela nodded, and Mother Keara’s attention shifted to Duncan. “We’ll send for you when we’re ready. It’ll take some time, workin’ out the details, and settin’ the barriers to make sure we don’t kill you and what’s left of yer friend John straightaway, and everyone else in the bargain. Do what Bela says about the medical tests. We need a good sample of yer body’s patterns as you get a little health to you.”
Duncan almost swore over the delay, but a phrase from his childhood helped him hold his peace.
Beggars can’t be choosers.
No shit.
He kept his mouth shut as Camille and Dio took hold of Mother Keara’s elbows.
Bela moved over to them and spoke in low tones, and Duncan thought he caught the words Cole, investigation, and … murder.
Murder.
Duncan felt a shiver of energy and a surge of his focus returning.
Yes. There had been a murder—that’s why he’d been chasing John in the first place. A woman had been slashed to death. Damnit. Had the NYPD been on that, or did they think John was the perp and put the case to bed? If the cat-demons did it, he at least needed to find out why, and how the killing tied into the similar murders in other cities—and the detail trail would be cold as hell
already.
He had to get himself out of this bed.
Dio frowned, glanced at Duncan, and nodded to Bela. Camille had no reaction at all, but Duncan was beginning to realize that might not be unusual. Camille seemed the type to stay to herself, maybe in her own head, but she also seemed kind in her own fashion, especially as she helped Dio lead Mother Keara out of the yellow room.
Saul and Calvin followed them out, as if the brothers had been assigned to stay with Mother Keara while she was in New York City. That wouldn’t surprise Duncan at all. Any sane person would be worried about a woman that powerful tottering unsupervised down the sidewalks of New York City.
That left only Blackjack, Bela, and Andy with Duncan.
Typical to his style, Blackjack ignored the bandages and blood and the upcoming healing ritual that might kill both Duncan and what was left of John Cole. He got straight to the rest of his business. From the iron set of his jaw, Duncan could tell he wouldn’t like what he was about to hear.
“If this works, you’ll be immediately transferred to the Occult Crimes Unit. You’ll work under my supervision, and Saul and Cal will keep a watch on you. Mostly, though, you’ll work with Bela’s fighting group.”
“Quad,” Bela corrected. “Most Sibyls fight in triads right now, but one day we’ll all be in quads again.”
Duncan liked looking at her, liked hearing her talk, and he planned to stay right next to her until the cat-demons were handled. But he didn’t like Blackjack’s tone, or the way his former commander had slipped right back into giving him orders.
“I’m staying with the Sibyls,” Duncan growled at Blackjack. “But it’s because I want to do it. If I make it past this big healing thing, I don’t need a babysitter, and I’m through taking orders from anybody. Fire me if you want to, but stay out of my face.”
Blackjack didn’t shoot back because Andy started laughing. “I knew I’d like you, Sharp.”
Bela didn’t look quite so amused. More worried, and a little annoyed, though Duncan didn’t know if her emotion was directed at him or at Blackjack.
Blackjack’s expression was a cross between frustrated and confused. “Babysitter,” he repeated, like he was trying to work up another argument about the need for supervision.
Duncan was a cop’s cop, but with weeks to live and demons probably plotting to attack a woman he intended to protect, Duncan didn’t want to discuss rank, assignment, command structure, or any other pointless bullshit. His lips pulled back from his teeth, and the fire in his neck and shoulder burned twice as hot. He was about to give Blackjack a piece of his mind, but John Cole shut down his speech centers somehow. Duncan couldn’t find the words he needed. What he could find, he couldn’t say. He felt like his tongue had been lashed to the bottom of his mouth.
Calm down, John’s voice instructed. Getting pissed only speeds up the infection. All strong emotions do.
Wonderful, Duncan shot back at him, but when he looked at Bela and thought about the Rakshasa, what they might do to her, he made his muscles relax.
Blackjack finally came up with something, and when he spoke, his voice was calmer and more authoritative than Duncan expected. “It’s either my way or we leave New York City today, and my other friends will monitor your infection until you change. We’ve never had a captive Rakshasa. The information would be useful.”
Bela and Andy both spun to face Blackjack, but Duncan never gave them a chance to speak.
“Other friends? Screw that!” He almost slammed his fist into the bed rail again, and would have if he hadn’t already broken the damned thing. “You’re playing on old rumors, Blackjack.”
“He’s playing at something,” Bela said, and she sounded dangerous.
“Fucking idiot.” Andy’s snarl was wicked and backed up by a spray of water from the sprinkler over Blackjack’s head. “Don’t try to pull this shit again, or I’ll wash you into Central Park.”
Duncan locked eyes with his now drenched former commander, seeking answers. The heat inside Duncan, all but the pain in his neck and shoulder wounds, ebbed in favor of a creeping, icy cold as he saw the truth in the hard flint of Blackjack’s gaze.
What you heard in Kabul after the Valley of the Gods—it wasn’t rumors, Duncan. John Cole’s voice was serious and apologetic. It’s all true.
Duncan’s mind flipped back in time, to the disaster in the mountains near Kabul, when John, a bunch of priests from the Vatican, and a recon unit had gone into a hidden valley to explore a temple. John was the only one who came back alive, and he was gone just a day after that, AWOL, snuffed out, shipped out—nobody knew. John just disappeared. Vanished. And Blackjack bugged out right behind him on a super-fast, super-silent black helicopter with pilots who wore full body armor and reflective face shields—but not before he tried to persuade Duncan to come with him.
Some weird shit happened in that valley, Sharp, Blackjack had told him. We have to react. We have to respond.
Blackjack had talked about plans for a new, secret branch of the special forces. Atypical Sightings Reconnaissance. ASR would be based at Fort Campbell, Kentucky, under control of the 101st Airborne, and they would be forming a civilian branch called the ASI, Atypical Sightings Investigations. ASI would be affiliated with the FBI, to act as liaisons with civilian organizations.
We have to reshape whole sections of law enforcement. We could use men like you, Sharp.
But Duncan couldn’t go along with bizarre shit like that. Not then, and he was having a damned hard time going along with it now, too. Yet here he was, about to be reassigned to the local nut squad because of Blackjack. The Occult Crimes Unit. Hell, half the officers in the NYPD didn’t take the OCU seriously, but Duncan realized the unit probably had been created after the first Gulf War. That’s when the ASI likely helped set it up. New York City’s OCU might have been formed by Blackjack himself. That’s why he was here now, and why he was acting like he was in charge.
“Let me get this straight.” Duncan refused to look at Blackjack, and let himself imagine the bastard buried balls up in a hot pile of sand. “Either I accept your authority and do what you say, or you’re taking me to some secret military facility to be an experiment—and die.”
“The hell he will.” The room seemed to give a little shake as Bela spoke, but Blackjack didn’t respond at all, except to keep up his stare.
Which was, of course, Duncan’s answer.
Duncan understood that the Sibyls weren’t caving to Blackjack’s threat, and that Blackjack knew better than to challenge such powerful women directly. That wouldn’t stop him from acting on the sly, though. From pulling some midnight raid or broad-daylight snatch off the streets.
John shared the nuclear flare of Duncan’s fury, but also helped him contain it. Duncan hated being trapped. Even in uniform, he had refused to be contained, confined, and corralled like Blackjack was trying to do. Bullets and explosions couldn’t hold him down—and now this?
He had to find something to say instead of getting more pissed off, because he sensed that John was serious about strong emotions making the demon infection harder to control. Duncan let his gaze drift over Andy, then settle on his angel.
Bela’s expression was severe now, and it didn’t get any softer when Duncan glared at Blackjack and said, “Military prison versus some concentrated time with good-looking women in leather. Hmm. Now that’s a hard choice, Blackjack. Damn, you’ve gotten mean since you went civilian.”
“Oh, for God’s sake.” Andy let loose another spray of water, then knocked past Blackjack as she headed for the door, setting off trickles from the sinks as she went. “Men. Cops. They’re all the same. I’m going to headquarters to help the Mothers.”
“I’ll be watching you, Duncan,” Blackjack said before he followed Andy out the door, presumably to go with her.
Bela raised her hands, and Duncan felt a surge of some kind of energy. The yellow room’s door slammed shut with so much force Duncan was surprised the wood didn’t split down
the middle.
The crash helped bring his thoughts back to earth, and for some reason it made him feel better.
“That man,” Bela said as she turned to face Duncan, her expression six kinds of pissed off, “is a first-class fuck-wad.”
“Yeah.” Tension ebbed out of Duncan as he watched her face change colors, and he almost laughed. “Blackjack has a way of making people love him, doesn’t he?”
“Ass-hat.” Bela took a breath. “Shit-scraper. Dickweed.” She was slowing down a little bit. The beginnings of a smile tugged at her lips. “Wait, wait. Prick-nose. I think I like that one best.”
Duncan stared at her because he couldn’t help it. The pink in her cheeks, the way her dark hair tumbled around her shoulders, wild from the energy she just fired at the door with her hands and her mouth—damn. She really was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, and he was alone with her now, and conscious, and he had to say something charming and brilliant.
He wanted to tell her how pretty she was, and that the vigil she kept at his bedside really made the difference. He wasn’t sure he would have made it back this far from the demon attack if she hadn’t given him so much time and kindness.
Nobody’s shown me that kind of tenderness since I was a kid.
You’re amazing.
When I can walk, have dinner with me.
Any of those things might have been right, but nothing came out of his mouth.
This was unbelievable.
He was good with women. He always had the perfect line, the right words to let them know they were special.
Until now.
“You’re—I—shit.” Duncan rubbed his good hand across his chin, as if adjusting his mouth might make the words come out better. What the hell was he trying to do, anyway? Hook up with her? He was infected. Dying—or trying to turn into some freaking demon. Was he out of his mind?
“Er, thanks. For—for saving my ass.”
I’m an idiot.
Her expression went from angry to amused, and Duncan figured she was reading him fast and well. He cleared his throat and tried to straighten himself in the hospital bed. When he moved, he felt like some asshole was driving hot needles through both of his arms. He winced, but the pain helped him dredge up a few more thoughts.